You Can Run, But You Can't Hide
by nhsweetcherry
Summary: A series of short stories as Virgil practices one of his favorite pastimes - catching his brothers trying to hide injuries.
1. Chapter 1

_One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is going to be a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients._

 _(Note: I have absolutely no idea why I wrote this in first-person, present tense…it kind of just happened. Anyway…)_

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _1\. You Can't Run, and You Can't Hide_

My fingers run up and down the piano keys in a series of graceful arpeggios, filling in the space between songs as I try to decide what to play next.

Hushed voices sound in the hallway; if I were seriously working on a piece, I probably wouldn't have noticed them, but the arpeggios don't require much attention on my part. I strain my ears to listen in, something about the tone of the words catching my attention.

"We can't walk past there – Virgil's in there!"

"Dude, he's playing the piano. You know he doesn't pay attention to anything else while he's playing."

My eyebrows rise. _Oh, really?_

"C'mon, quit dawdling! We're almost to your room."

A shuffling sound, followed by a yelp of pain.

"Hey, take it easy!"

"Well, you're the one who wanted to get into hiding before Virgil could find out!"

I'm all ears now. I can think of a few objects my brothers have tried to hide from me over the years, but a _person_ going into hiding usually means one of two things: damage to Thunderbird Two, or an injury acquired in an embarrassing manner – namely, one that has occurred on off-duty hours (injuries obtained on rescues generally seem to be less damaging to the ego, I've noticed, and are far more likely to be reported quickly).

Adding up all the evidence, I decide that this situation almost certainly falls into the injury category – and as the team medic, it is, of course, my duty to make sure the victim is thoroughly treated. They call me and Scott the Smother-Hens. The title totally fits Scott (and, okay, maybe just _once in a while_ I may go a little overboard too…), but most of the time, it's not so much about the smothering for me – I just have fun catching them when they think they're getting away with hiding something.

I let my arpeggios drift to a halt, and wait for them to notice.

It takes them a moment, then I hear a shushing sound.

"Shh! He stopped playing! Do you think he heard?"

 _Well, duh! Maybe if your whispers were actually_ quiet, _the whole sneaking thing would work better for you…_

I leave my piano bench and stride loudly toward the door, enjoying the little flurry of activity this causes.

"He's coming! He's coming! Run!"

"Dude, I _can't_ run– that's the whole point! Quick, help me to my room!"

"No way – you're on your own now! I refuse to be an accessory!"

"Traitor! Yellowbelly!"

Running footsteps sound, and by the time I step up to the doorway, Alan is alone in the hallway, balancing precariously on one foot, his shoe missing from the other foot and the ankle clearly swollen. A door slams somewhere in the distance.

Alan looks at me and gulps. "Hi, Virg," he says in a small voice.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the doorframe. "Hi, Alan. How's it going?" I like to give them a chance to 'fess up, mostly because they'll usually have one last go at pretending like everything is fine, even though it's perfectly obvious that it's not. I could write a book with the stories they've come up with.

Alan grimaces. I can see the wheels turning in his mind as he tries to come up with something to explain why he's standing there with one foot off the ground. After a moment, his shoulders slump – he's given up, probably distracted by his annoyance with Gordon for abandoning him.

"I twisted my ankle," he mutters sullenly.

"Doing what?"

"Running."

"From who?"

He looks at me like I'm crazy. "What do you mean, 'From who?' I was just running – you know, like, for _exercise_?"

I kneel down and carefully move his ankle around, ignoring his hiss of pain. I shrug. "Don't sound so incredulous – remember last month when Gordy got a black eye while you two were running from Scott after pulling that prank on him?"

A slight smile crosses his features. "Oh, yeah…that was a good one."

"The prank or the black eye?"

He considers this, then shrugs. "Both." He looks down at me and glares. "But this wasn't anything like that – I was just running on the beach, and I didn't notice a hole in the sand."

I stand up. "So why were you trying to hide it?" I pull one of his arms over my shoulder. "C'mon, I don't think it's broken, but I'd better X-Ray it to be sure. You're definitely off rescues for at least a couple days, in any case."

He glowers. " _That's_ why. A little rest, ice and elevation, and it would have been fine. But no, you insist on poking, and prodding, and just generally going way overboard!"

"Well, it's my job to make sure," I tell him cheerfully. I honestly don't understand why they don't come to me on their own, considering the need for good physical condition on our job – but at least I'm nearly always able to catch them before it can spiral out of control.

We reach the infirmary. "Here we are!" I situate Alan on the table and get the X-Ray machine ready, careful to keep Alan in my peripheral in case he tries to make a break for it – even with one leg out of commission, he's a devious one.

His ankle isn't broken, but it's a bad sprain. I wrap it and hand him crutches. "You're off rescues for at least two days," I say. "Remember – rest, ice, elevation!"

"I could have told you that," he grumbles. "Oh, wait – I _did_!" He adjusts his crutches and clumps away awkwardly.

"You're welcome!" I call after him.

He just waves a hand in response. I smile – another brother caught and taught a lesson: you can run (well, maybe not literally…), but you can't hide!


	2. Chapter 2

_One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is the second in a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients._

 _Note to Fishton: I wrote this before I got your request for Gordon's story to include his back acting up…maybe I'll do a bonus story later!_

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _2\. Superglue Doesn't Fix Everything_

I walk through the hangar, weary after a long day doing maintenance on Two. It's almost dinner time; I have just enough time to make it upstairs and take a hot shower.

I'm walking past the open door to Pod Four when I hear something that makes me freeze in my tracks.

"Ouch!"

Not too alarming in itself, except when it's followed by…

"Ouchouchouchouch! Stupid! Oh, man, Virgil's gonna kill me! Unless I can patch it up really quick…hmm, where'd I put that superglue?"

Okay, time to step in. It's no fun picking superglue from a wound that ought to have been stitched – believe me, I know.

"Gordon? You ready to head up for dinner?"

He spins around to face me, his left hand going behind his back as he does so. His face is guilty, but with all of his pranking experience, he's quicker to mask it than some of his brothers. "Oh, hey, Virg – you startled me. Um, I'll be another couple minutes."

"Oh, okay." I start to turn away, then glance back and point to several dark red spatters on the floor behind him. "Hey, did you know you're bleeding?"

He blinks innocently. "Bleeding? Oh, no, that's just red paint. I was painting – uh – um, a tool handle!"

His expression is triumphant, but then his face falls as I look around exaggeratedly for any evidence to corroborate his story.

"Huh. Painting a tool handle. All right…so where's the tool? And the can of paint? And the paint brush?" I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him. Scott's got the best glare, but mine's not a bad second, if I do say so myself.

He sets his jaw stubbornly, apparently planning to stick to his illogical story, and I know it's time to cut to the chase – the blood is dripping at a rate that indicates a serious need for attention.

"Gords, I know you hurt yourself. Let me see." I step forward and reach for his arm.

Reluctantly, he brings his arm back around to the front of his body, and I gape at the sight – he has a six-inch-long cut running along his forearm and down the back of his hand, definitely deep enough to require stitches. Blood has run down all over his hand and is dripping off the ends of his fingers.

"Gordon, what in the world?" I demand, looking around for a clean cloth to apply pressure with. There's a First Aid kit on the wall; I find supplies in there and quickly begin to work.

He shrugs, looking embarrassed. "There's a raw metal edge under this work table that I keep meaning to put tape over. A tool rolled under there, and I forgot about the sharp edge when I was pulling it back out."

I shake my head in disbelief. "Well, c'mon – we'd better get up to the infirmary. The blood is already soaking through the dressings, and you don't have any more in your dinky little First Aid kit."

I add "Put Better First Aid Kits in Pods" to my mental to-do list as I march Gordon up to the infirmary.

As I get my tools ready, I call Dad on the wrist-comm. to let him know Gordon and I will be late for dinner.

"Why is that, Virgil?" Dad asks.

I can hear Scott and Alan talking in the background.

"He heard that I needed to practice my stitching skills, so he kindly volunteered to be my test subject," I tell him. I cast a sidelong glance at Gordon, enjoying his expression as he realizes that if Scott is anywhere in the vicinity of the wrist-comm. call, he will probably show up in the infirmary in approximately 3.2 seconds, in full Smother-Hen mode.

Sure enough, I'm just injecting the local anesthetic when Scott skids into the room.

His jaw drops as he sees the wound. "Gordon, what in the world?"

Gordon rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's what Virg said, too. It's just a scratch, Scotty. A few stitches and I'll be fine." He shoots me a dirty look. "I still think the superglue would have worked."

"Without even cleaning the wound first? You'd totally be setting yourself up for infection," I tell him calmly. Suiting my actions to my words, I begin to clean the cut.

Gordon mutters darkly under his breath – something about brothers who don't let the anesthetic kick in before starting to work.

The site is numb by the time I start stitching, though, and he watches with a bored expression as the wound is pulled shut by the threads. He's probably the most blasé about things like this, probably due to his lengthy stay in the hospital after his hydrofoil accident. Alan always turns a little green when I stitch him up, while Scott gets all stoic and pretends it doesn't bother him, although I've noticed that he doesn't look until I'm done. John, hmm, I'm not sure I've actually ever had to give John stitches. Between his fairly cautious nature and the amount of time he spends up on Five, he's perhaps a little less injury-prone than the rest of us, although he certainly does have his moments.

Before I'm done, Scott heads back upstairs, having apparently decided that the injury is not severe enough to keep him from his dinner.

When I finish, I apply a bandage to protect the stitches. "No swimming for a few days," I tell him.

His face falls. "Even if I cover it?"

I shake my head. "The way the stitches run across the back of your wrist, I think they'd tend to pull."

He, of course, immediately experiments to see how far he can bend his wrist. I stop him before he can pull out any of my neat stitches.

Seeing how crestfallen he looks, I modify my initial order. "Okay, if it's covered, you can be _in_ the pool. No laps, though – just floating."

He looks slightly happier. "Well, okay. Thanks, I guess," he says grudgingly.

"You're welcome, I guess," I reply. "C'mon, let's go before the others eat all the food!"

We head upstairs and join the family.

Halfway through the meal, I hear Gordon speaking softly with Alan.

"It's so weird," Gordon says. "It's like he's a mind reader or something – I didn't even know he was anywhere nearby, but then I cut myself, and kaboom! There he is."

I take a sip of water to hide my smirk. This isn't the first time my brothers have indicated that they think that I have some sort of creepy intuition about when they're injured. I would never admit to them that sometimes, it's simply a matter of good timing on my part. Besides, I don't mind being seen as slightly mysterious. You've got to have some fun in this job!


	3. Chapter 3

_One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is the third in a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients._

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _3\. Under the Microscope_

John often complains that he feels like he's living under a microscope when he's down on earth because we all keep such a close eye on him. We just shrug and let him keep on complaining – we can't help it, we tell him. We're making up for all the time that we don'tget to smother him while he's up on Five.

Besides, despite his rather cautious nature, John does still manage to get himself hurt sometimes. In addition, his immune system seems to struggle with the transition from solitude to being surrounded by people, and it's a rare shift rotation that he doesn't catch a cold or some other sort of bug.

Because of the close scrutiny he lives under, it's difficult for him to hide injury or illness. That doesn't mean that he doesn't try, though. I know for a fact that he orders cough drops and cold medicine in bulk, keeping a stash of it in his bathroom and sometimes using it a little more freely than he really ought to in an attempt to delay our discovery of his illness. He's also very good at bandaging himself, and that, combined with his tendency to sit around and read a lot, makes it difficult to detect sprains and other injuries.

I share a balcony with John. We're both night owls, and I can't count the number of times I've stepped outside for a midnight breath of fresh air, only to jump violently as I detect movement over on John's side of the balcony. There's usually a soft laugh, and then John unfolds himself from his chair in the corner. He steps carefully around his telescope and comes over to stand beside me for a while as we lean against the rail in comfortable silence, listening to the cacophonous music of the jungle at night, intertwined with the soft, rhythmic pulse of the ocean waves. I miss his quiet presence when he's up on Five, and I don't go out on the balcony nearly as much as when he's home.

Tonight is John's first night back after a rotation on Five, and we've just spent a whole hour standing out on the balcony. I finally head back into my room, shutting my door and pulling the shades so that my light won't disturb John's stargazing. I blink at the harshness of the light as I flick on my bedside lamp. Glancing at the clock, I debate between going to bed or filling in a few more details on the painting I'm working on.

Before I can make up my mind, I hear a yelp and a strange crashing sound from outside. I hurry to the door and fling it open, turning on the outside lights too. I frown – the balcony is empty, except for John's chair and telescope.

"John?" I call quietly, aware that windows may be open into other bedrooms nearby and not wanting to wake any of the lighter sleepers.

His bedroom is dark, and his balcony door is still open. I step cautiously inside, trying to remember if he has anything near the door. Probably not – he's a neat freak, after all.

"John? You in here?" I ask. My eyes are gradually adjusting to the dim, shadowy illumination cast by the balcony lights I had turned on. I glance around. His bed is empty, and there's no light on in his bathroom. Maybe he left for a midnight snack? But why the yell? And what was that crash?

Suddenly the bedroom door opens, and John's figure is silhouetted against the dim motion-sensor lights that come on when one of us wanders the halls at night. His door slides shut behind him, and then I can't see him at all – I can only hear him muttering under his breath, although I can't make out the words.

"John?" I say.

He gasps. "Virgil! You trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing in here?"

"I heard something – it sounded like you yelling – and then a crash. Are you okay?" I grope for him in the darkness, but he evades my hand.

"I, uh, just tripped and, uh, knocked against my chair. Sorry about the yell – I stubbed my toe."

I try to piece that one together. Something is definitely missing. "How did you get out in the hall so fast, though? I was out on that balcony in seconds!"

"Um, I ran to get ice," John said quickly.

Interestingly, despite having the most brilliant mind of anyone that I know – and that's saying something – John is ridiculously bad at coming up with excuses. Even Scott is better than him. I cross my arms over my chest. "You _ran_ to get ice," I repeat. "After stubbing your toe?"

Long pause. I can hear him edging toward his bathroom, doubtless planning to dart inside and lock the door. I foil this plan by stepping in front of the bathroom door.

Since he's apparently decided to give up on his stubbed toe story, I try a more direct approach to getting answers. "What _really_ happened, John?"

At this, he chooses to play the "big brother" card – honestly, a very unusual move for John, and one that only confirms my growing suspicion that something is actually wrong with him.

"Virgil," he growls, "Get out of my room – now."

What he's forgetting, though, is that the normal big brother/little brother rules don't apply in this sort of situation. I'm in full medic mode now, and no amount of growling is going to keep me from my patient!

"I don't think so," I retort. Reaching around the bathroom door frame, I grope around for a moment until I find the light switch. A simple flick, and John is illuminated.

John flinches against the brightness – and my jaw drops as I finally get a good look at him.

"John, what _happened_?" I ask, staring at him in utter disbelief.

He is _covered_ in scrapes, scratches and rapidly-forming bruises. His clothes are dirty and torn, and he has leaves stuck in his hair. He seems to be favoring his right leg. How had he managed all this when we had just parted ways five minutes before?

He glares at me, his blue eyes frigid. "I fell off the balcony, okay?" he snaps.

I gape at him. "You _what_?"

He pushes past me, limping, and begins inspecting his scratches in the bathroom mirror. He pulls off his shirt, revealing still more injuries all over his torso – including a particularly dark bruise over his left ribs. The bush under our balcony will probably never be the same. "I went to sit on the railing, but then I overbalanced…and I fell off. You happy?" He adds soap to a wet washcloth and gingerly begins to clean the scratches on his right arm.

I snatch the cloth from him. "No, I'm not happy – you weren't going to tell me about this, were you? John, that's a ten-foot drop! Are you hurt anywhere else?"

"What, this isn't enough for you?" he snarls. Wow, he's in a _really_ bad mood.

I sigh and stop cleaning his scratches, meeting his eyes in the mirror. I take a deep breath to calm myself down. In a much softer voice, I say, "Let's try this again. Johnny, that was a bad fall, but I'm here to help. Where does it hurt the worst?"

He can't help but respond to calmness – after all, his entire job is about being calm in dealing with frantic people. I notice that it takes him _two_ deep breaths before he's ready to reply, though. "I think I bruised my ribs and twisted my knee," he mutters. "As far as I can tell, everything else is superficial." His lips quirk, and a glimmer of his usual quiet sense of humor reappears in his eyes. "Stings like crazy, though."

"I believe it," I say, very glad he's back to himself. It's one of the things I like best about John – he doesn't hold onto his anger for long. "Okay, let's get you down to the infirmary. Some of these scratches ought to be covered, and I want to do a couple x-rays on your knee and ribs."

He groans, but trails along after me as I head for the door. " _That's_ why I wasn't going to tell you," he says. "I don't need x-rays, Virg – just give me a couple bandages and a painkiller, and I'll be good to go."

I ignore his protests, and a half hour later, he is patched up as well as I can manage. His knee is wrapped, and I've determined that his ribs are indeed just bruised, not broken. There's not a ton I can do for the scratches, other than cover a few of the deeper ones. He's going to be plenty sore for the next few days, that's for sure.

Sitting on the exam table, he stares morosely down at his wrapped knee. "Maybe I should just go back up to Five until I heal," he says sadly. "At least there I can be useful."

"Hey, no need for that," I chide. "You should only be off rescues for a couple days. Consider this a mini vacation – a chance to kick back and relax with a good book!" I support him as he slides off the table. "Besides, we like having you around."

"Yeah, so you can keep an eye on me, right?" he grumbles. "At least on Five I can have some privacy when I want it."

But he puts his arm around my shoulders as we walk back up to the bedrooms, and I know he's not _just_ using me as a crutch.

I debate getting up early enough to make it to breakfast tomorrow – Scott's face is going to be epic when he sees John. It probably won't happen, though. I'm wired now, and I'll most likely be up another couple of hours painting.

We part ways in the hallway, heading for our separate bedroom doors. John is muttering something about being under a microscope as he waves goodnight and limps through his doorway.

Actually, I think as I head into my own room, John's analogy is pretty good.


	4. Chapter 4

_One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is the fourth in a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients._

 _Thanks to my sisters and to ScribeofRED for looking this over for me. Based on their advice, I'm going to put in a WARNING: BRIEF MENTION OF BODILY FLUIDS. Honestly, it's nothing much, but we agreed, better safe than sorry._

 _Also, there are a couple reviewers I cannot respond to because you are guests or have disabled messages…please know that your reviews are greatly appreciated!_

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _4\. Barefoot_

It's mid-morning, and I'm up – kind of. As I stumble down the hall toward the kitchen with only one thought in my mind ( _coffee…_ ), something prompts me to look out a window. I stop short.

I can see the beach from here – and a lone figure, sitting on a low, rocky outcrop, staring into the ocean. Scott. But something is wrong. I watch him for a couple minutes before my sleepy mind figures it out – he isn't moving. Scott almost _never_ stops moving. He's really not the type to sit on a rock and enjoy watching the waves crashing over the rocks – that's more my kind of thing.

I cast one last longing glance toward the kitchen, but decide that my coffee will have to wait. Besides, I tell myself as I head for the nearest outside door, my curiosity has me plenty awake now.

As I get close, I can see that Scott is still wearing his running clothes – shorts and a T-shirt. His sneakers are next to him on the rock. I glance at my watch and frown. Scott would have finished his morning run hours ago. Why hasn't he been back to the house for a shower and breakfast?

I drop down next to him. "Hey."

He turns toward me, his thoughtful frown changing into a warm smile that doesn't quite mask something flickering deep within his eyes. "Hey." He gestures toward the ocean. "Nice view, huh?"

"Beautiful," I agree.

We sit in silence for a few minutes. It's not quite our normal, comfortable silence, though – I can tell that there's something on Scott's mind. I search my memory for something from a recent rescue that might have triggered introspection in my older brother, but I come up blank. Well, with his perfectionist tendencies, it could be anything. The only really weird thing is that he usually takes out his frustrations by running – or by punching a bag – or by lifting weights.

I study his face more closely, noticing that he has a vertical line between his eyebrows – a sure sign that he's in physical pain. Okay, so maybe he's not introspective after all. Headache, perhaps? But why wouldn't he have come up to the house and taken some painkillers?

His posture is interesting, too – due to the slope of the rock, when I sat down, I had automatically pulled my knees up to my chest. Scott, however, is sitting with his legs straight in front of him, bracing himself with his arms behind him. He hasn't moved from this position since I arrived, even though it doesn't look very comfortable. I modify my preliminary diagnosis to a sprained ankle or wrenched knee, although I can't see any swelling from here.

I turn to face him more fully, shifting into a cross-legged position. Time to get some answers. "So…sprained ankle?"

The corner of his mouth quirks in a smile. "Nope. Guess again."

I growl at him. "It's too early for guessing games."

This elicits a laugh, as I knew it would. He doesn't tease me much, but he can never resist poking fun at how late I sleep in.

"Early?" he snorts. "The day's half gone!" He suddenly looks morose. "And I've been stuck here this whole time, not getting _anything_ done."

I glare at him. He's not affected by it in the same way as little brothers are, but he gets the point.

With a sigh, he draws his left foot in toward his body, propping it up on his right leg so that the sole is facing me.

I grimace in sympathy. Little black spikes are sticking out all over the bottom of his foot. "Sea urchin, huh?" I say.

He nods. "I took off my shoes and walked along the edge of the surf to cool off after my run." He shakes his head. "I should have known better."

"And you didn't call up to the house _why_?"

"Dad's away. You weren't up yet. And really – would _you_ want to call Alan or Gordon for help? I was holding out hope that there might be some way that they wouldn't find out about this."

I'm skeptical that we can hide the injury from the youngest two. Scott's going to be limping for a while. "I'll see what I can do, but it really depends how deeply the spikes are embedded. You could be walking again in a couple hours, or you could need minor surgery. Let's get you up to the infirmary, and I'll be able to tell a lot better."

After a couple awkward attempts at walking, and Scott's utter refusal to take me up on my half-serious offer to carry him piggy-back, I decide to go get crutches from the infirmary.

As I return a couple minutes later with the crutches, I nearly groan when I see that Gordon and Alan have discovered Scott's predicament and are standing next to him.

Scott's posture is stiff with annoyance, while Gordon is gesturing animatedly. Alan appears to be in acute respiratory distress from laughing too hard.

Getting closer, I can hear the conversation.

"Gordon," Scott says in a low, level voice. "I'm _not_ doing it, so you might as well just _shut up right now!_ " The final four words come out in a bark that reveal that Scott is really close to losing his temper.

Gordon shrugs. "Fine. Be in pain. I'm just telling you –"

I step up onto the rock. "What's going on, Scott?"

Scott twists around to look up at me. "Virgil, get these lunatics away from me," he growls. "Gordon wants me to – to _pee_ on my _foot_!"

Alan, who has just begun to collect himself, trails off in wails of helpless laughter again, staggering around weak-legged and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

Gordon smirks. "I'm not making this up, Scott. Ask anyone on any Pacific island, and they'll tell you the same thing. It takes the sting out!"

"Or maybe they just like seeing people make fools of themselves," Scott mutters. He looks at me imploringly.

I can't help it – my lips twist into a reluctant smile. "Uh, sorry, Scott, but the Squirt's right on this one. The, uh, urine does –"

He cuts me off with a vicious gesture. "I _don't_ want to hear it, okay?" He stares at me, his blue eyes dark with betrayal.

I sigh. As funny as this is, it's definitely not worth having Scott mad at me. "Gordon, get lost. There are plenty of other – _more sanitary_ – ways of dealing with the problem." I pull Scott to his feet – well, _foot_ – and hand him the crutches.

Scott immediately swings one crutch toward Gordon, who has to sidestep quickly to avoid being knocked off into the water.

Facing a mobile – and seriously annoyed – oldest brother, the two youngest quickly skedaddle, Alan still wheezily laughing as he stumbles away in Gordon's wake.

We look at each other and Scott rolls his eyes. "Brats," he mutters, even as he begins to smile. In another moment, we're both laughing nearly as hard as Alan had been. It takes a little bit before we're fit to start walking.

When we get to the infirmary, I soak Scott's foot in hot water for half an hour. After that, I'm able to remove the spikes and pedicellariae. I clean the wounds and slather the area in antibiotic ointment, wrapping his whole foot in bandages.

He looks at the bandages in distaste and heaves a huge sigh. "How long will I be off rescues?"

I shrug. "Hard to say. It really wasn't as bad as it looked – you might be feeling pretty good by tomorrow. I'll change the dressings this afternoon and make sure there isn't any infection."

"Thanks, Virg," he says. He smirks. "Now will you _please_ go get yourself some coffee? You're going to have _me_ yawning here in a minute."

I harrumph and stifle another yawn. Hmm, he's right – now that I don't have a reason to be focused, my normal morning sleepiness is reasserting itself. "I will if you'll fix us some breakfast."

His eyebrows climb. "You? Breakfast?"

"Maybe the fresh morning air stimulated my appetite."

He glances at his watch. "Um, Virg, I'm not sure it's actually morning any more."

Ah, that explains my hunger. "Well, then, if you'll fix us some _lunch_?"

Together we head for the kitchen. I wonder how Scott's going to cook while balancing on crutches, but hey, he's a talented guy. I'm sure he'll figure it out.

As I sip my coffee a few minutes later and watch Scott cautiously putting a little weight on his foot, I sigh. Apparently hiding injuries is in the Tracy genes, even affecting my responsible oldest brother, considering how long he had sat on that beach. Then I smile – I had caught him, and that's all that matters in the end.


	5. Chapter 5

_One of Virgil's skills is catching his brothers when they try to hide injuries or illnesses. This is the fifth in a collection of short stories featuring our favorite medic and his reluctant patients._

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _5\. A Taste of My Own Medicine_

I feel like I'm the protagonist in one of those old _Mission Impossible_ movies as I cautiously make my way toward the infirmary. Seriously, is there something going on that I don't know about? The hallways seem far more active than normal.

I duck behind a potted fern as Brains wanders past, scribbling something frantically on his e-pad and muttering to himself. Actually, I probably didn't need to hide from him – he's so absorbed in his work that I doubt if he would have noticed me even if I'd spoken his name.

Hearing a door opening at the end of the hall, I hurry into my bedroom and hide behind the door, listening. Based on the quick, energetic tread, I'd say it's Gordon. A glance at my watch confirms it – it's time for his daily laps in the pool. Well, one of his daily sets of laps. I think he swims at some ridiculously early hour in the morning too. It's no wonder that the kid always smells like chlorine.

I consider staying in my room – I have some medical supplies in my bathroom cabinet – but a quick glance at the reason for my secretive journey has me moving on again. I definitely need the infirmary for this one.

Once Gordon is out of hearing, I'm on the move again, stealthily slinking through the hallways and down flights of stairs. A closet becomes my refuge when loud voices announce Alan and Scott's approach – they're arguing about which company they should order a certain part from.

I frown – is it just my imagination, or does Scott pause slightly as he passes by the closet door? After a split second, he continues on, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Finally, I step into the infirmary. As I do so, though, my watch vibrates, making me nearly jump out of my skin.

"Yes?"

Dad's voice comes through the radio. "Virgil, are you done with your coffee yet? I'd like to look over some paperwork with you in my office."

I sidestep the question. "Okay, Dad. I'll be there in a few minutes!"

"All right, Virgil," Dad replies.

Okay, there goes my time window – now I'll have to work much faster than I would prefer. Oh well – nothing this morning has gone the way I would have liked…except for the part where I got here undetected.

I pull away the blood-soaked paper towel I have wrapped around my right hand and glower at the deep wound in the palm of my hand. Yep, I definitely need stitches – and right where I handle most of the machines and equipment during rescues, too. That's not going to be fun. I waver for a moment – I really should tell Scott…but then I straighten my shoulders. I'll find some way to make it work. There's no way I'm admitting to something like this!

I clean the wound and clumsily inject a local anesthetic. Hmm…I hadn't really thought this part through, had I? Stitching is really more of a two-handed job. Maybe Gordon's superglue idea wasn't such a bad one after all…

"Ahem."

I jump and spin around to face the door. Oh boy. My day just went from bad to really, _really_ bad.

Scott, Gordon and Alan are standing there, identical expressions on their face – kind of a grim smugness. They all have their arms crossed over their chests too. A part of me marvels that three men who look so different can also look so similar.

"How's it going, Virg?" Scott asks coolly.

"Oh, just peachy," I growl, grabbing a paper towel and dabbing at my hand as the blood trickles down my fingers.

Scott steps forward. His face is stern, but his fingers are gentle as he takes my hand and turns it to inspect the wound. After a moment, he lets go and holds his watch up to his mouth. "Brains? We need you in the infirmary. Virgil needs stitches."

He points to the exam table. "Sit. And keep pressure on that until Brains gets here."

I roll my eyes and obey, ignoring Gordon and Alan's sniggers over by the door. "How did you know?" I ask sulkily.

"You left evidence," Scott told me. He points to the floor.

I groan as I see what he means. I had left a blood trail – a single, distinct drop of blood every few feet.

"There were also blood smears on a couple doors," Alan says.

"And on that fern near the kitchen," Gordon adds.

"Alan and I noticed the trail and followed it, although we went the wrong way at first – toward the kitchen," Scott continues. "Gordon had been following it too, and he found other evidence."

Gordon smirks. "A word of advice – if you're going to smash your coffee cup and cut yourself on it, don't leave the big, bloody piece of glass sitting right in the top of the trash can."

All I can do is groan again.

My brothers laugh unmercifully – including John, who has apparently been listening in from the TV monitor in the corner.

John speaks up. "Time for a taste of your own medicine, Virg," he says.

Brains enters the room then, and pauses before he begins to work. "Virgil, can I, uh, ask you something?"

"Sure, Brains," I reply, surprised at how serious the scientist seems.

"Have I o-offend- uh, hurt your feelings in some way?"

I gape at him. "No, definitely not!"

"Then why did you h-hi- uh, conceal yourself behind the fern when you saw me a few minutes ago?"

As I resist the urge to facepalm, my brothers explode into laughter. So much for Brains not being aware of his surroundings! "Well, Brains," I begin.

"It's a Tracy thing," Gordon tells him.

"He didn't want anyone to know he'd cut himself," Alan adds.

Brains looks bewildered. "B-but how were you going to st-st- uh, sew it up?"

I growl, "I would've figured something out."

Brains just shakes his head and goes to work. Scott and Alan grimace and look away.

Gordon pipes up. "So, Brains, how long do you think Virgil will be off rescues?"

Brains eyes his first stitch critically. "H-hard to say, Gordon. The wound is deep, and is on his d-dom-uh, right hand. Perhaps a week or more."

Gordon and Alan shout at the same time, "I call dibs on Two!"

This time my groan is even more heartfelt. My poor Bird!

Scott shoots me a slightly sympathetic glance, although he can't quite make himself stop grinning. "Don't worry, Virg, I'll keep an eye on them. I'm sure your Bird will be fine."

I swat his comforting hand away, heartsick.

When I report to Dad a few minutes later, my hand swathed in far more bandages than I would have thought necessary, he glances toward me with a slight frown.

"I guess you won't be typing, then," he says. "Oh well – I've got plenty of other things you can help me with. But first – did you actually get to drink your coffee before you smashed your cup?"

Scott must have reported the incident to him. I shake my head sadly.

"Well, go and get yourself some," Dad says. "Otherwise, I know you'll be of no use to me." He tempers the words with a gentle smile.

As I start to leave the room, Dad stands to reach for a book high on a shelf.

"Watch out!" I cry, lurching back toward him a moment too late.

A heavy bookend teeters and falls, catching Dad a glancing blow to the head on its way down. He staggers back, and touches a finger to the gash on his forehead, his face startled. He glances toward me, and suddenly looks stern as he sees me raising my watch to my mouth.

"Virgil, don't you dare –" he starts to say.

Too late. "Guys, get to the office quick," I say. "Dad's hurt!"

He shoots me a betrayed look as we hear a thunder of footsteps approaching from the hallway.

I shrug. "Sorry, but it's my job," I tell him, unable to stop a small smirk as I step forward to check the damage. "Just follow my finger with your eyes…"


	6. Chapter 6

_Here's a bonus Gordon story, as requested by Fishton!_

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

It's been a quiet day so far, and most of us are taking advantage of the down time to relax around the pool – although Scott has his laptop and is looking over some reports for Dad. He would claim that he's relaxing, and I suppose that by his standards, he is.

I, on the other hand, am practically melting into my lounge chair in the warm sunshine, listening to the music folder on my mp3 player that I've labeled "Peaceful." I could probably have fallen asleep, if it wasn't for the two pests in the pool occasionally sending showers of cool water over me with their splashing around.

Gordon and Alan seem to be attempting to play volleyball, even though it's only the two of them in the water. They're not doing too badly, all things considered, but it would definitely be easier with more players.

Gordon lunges for the ball, but misses. It bounces off his head and out of the pool, sending Alan into paroxysms of laughter.

The ball rolls to a stop under a lounger a few feet away from me. Gordon swims to the edge of the pool and casts me an imploring glance.

"Hey, Virg, chuck that over here, would you?"  
I pull one earbud out and look toward the ball. I would have to stand to reach it. "That would mean getting up," I call back.

"Well, duh!" Gordon huffs in annoyance as he can see that I have no intention of moving. He heaves himself over the edge of the pool and walks over, making sure to drip on me.

"Gordon!"

"Serves you right," he mutters. He bends down to get the ball, having to twist to reach it. Suddenly, with a little grunting sound, he drops to his hands and knees.

We all blink at him, startled, for a moment before we realize that he's not getting back up.

"Gordon?" Scott practically tosses his laptop onto a side table and hurries over.

We reach Gordon's side at the same time, and we can hear Alan splashing up from the pool.

Gordon's face is twisted in a grimace of pain. "There it goes again," he says tightly. "Stupid back!"

"Oh, Gordon," I sigh sympathetically. Most people who suffer with back problems will tell you that it's usually something small that sets them off – something like opening a window, picking up a child, or even just missing a step. Gordon is no exception. Despite the hazards of our job, I'd guess that his back has gone out just as often at home as on a rescue.

And, speaking of rescues, the klaxon chooses that moment to sound off. Scott and I shoot each other looks of dismay and Alan mutters, " _Really_?"

"Just dump me in the lounge on your way through," Gordon says quickly.

We hesitate to move him, knowing it will be agonizing for him, but we can't exactly leave him to be crisped by Thunderbird One, either. Scott and I each take an arm and pull Gordon up, steeling ourselves against his pained gasps. Supporting most of his weight, we hustle him inside.

After those few wobbling steps, he modifies his original destination, nodding instead toward a chair just inside the door. "Put me down there," he pleads.

Scott and I glance at each other, hesitating.

"I'll call Kyrano, okay?" he says. "Just put me down and get going!" He wiggles free of our grasp and nearly falls before we can catch him again.

"Okay, Gords, just take it easy," Scott murmurs as we help him hobble over to the chair.

I can see that it's killing Scott to leave Gordon like this, and I'm not too happy about it myself – but Gordon's injury isn't life-threatening, so the rescue takes priority.

We settle him into the chair as gently as we can, even though we know we need to hurry.

He's pale, but he rolls his eyes. "Just go, already," he snaps. "I'll be fine!"

We know he's right, so we leave him and race up to the lounge.

Dad is pacing, wondering at our delay, but his annoyance turns to concern when we tell him about Gordon's back.

Still, the rescue comes first, and within moments, we're on our way to assist with an oil rig fire off the coast of Alaska.

It's a long, grueling rescue. Just after we remove the final group of workers, the rig explodes. Thunderbird Two emerges unscathed, but One sustains enough damage from flying debris that Dad insists that Scott and I fly side-by-side all the way home in case Scott needs a rescue.

For this reason, Scott, Alan and I all troop back into the lounge at the same time for once.

Predictably, the first words out of Scott's mouth are: "How's Gordon?"

Dad shushes him and points toward the couch, where there's a curled-up lump under a blanket, with just a tuft of red hair visible at one end.

I can't help it – I let out an "Awww," which reduces Alan to a giggling mess. Scott smirks at me, but his eyes soften as he looks at the couch, and he sidles casually over to tuck the blanket in a little more, even though it's obvious that Dad has already done so.

Dad speaks in a hushed voice. "Kyrano helped him up here not long after you left, and Brains gave him his painkillers. He managed to stay awake until you were almost back to the island."

That's impressive – usually the heavy dose of painkillers has Gordon down for the count within minutes. I sigh as I look down at him. It always seems weird to see Gordon – who's normally so energetic, just bubbling over with life and joy – incapacitated, but in an odd way, I know it's part of what makes Gordon who he is. I'm not sure that his happiness would be so profound if we didn't know the darkness he'd been through. Times like this are a reminder to the rest of us just how amazing it is to have Gordon in our life.

We move quietly from the room, leaving Dad to keep an eye on Gordon – although I know that each of us will undoubtedly straggle back later, waiting for our redheaded brother to wake up. I'm sure he'll start cracking jokes as soon as he sees us, and once he's feeling better, he'll undoubtedly go on a pranking spree – but, honestly, we wouldn't have it any other way.


	7. Chapter 7

_Just a bit of brotherly fluff to fill in while I'm working on another story…I changed the format for this chapter._

 _I do not own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

 _7\. Super Powers_

Gordon knew he was sick the instant he awoke and sat up, a sort of heaviness trying to press him back down into the soft cocoon of sheets and blankets on his bed. His throat was raw, his head throbbed and his mind felt fuzzy. On top of all that, every bone and joint in his body ached and he could already tell that he had no energy whatsoever.

It was only years of habit and a deeply-ingrained sense of discipline that got him out of bed and down to the pool for his daily laps. His body simply couldn't do what it normally did, though, so after just a couple slow laps, he found himself clinging to the edge of the pool, wheezing like a beached whale. Eventually he gave up and climbed from the pool.

 _It has to have been that guy who sneezed in my face in Russia two days ago,_ he thought darkly. Gordon and his brothers were used to being exposed to any number of illnesses in the course of their work. Some they were vaccinated against, but for others, they had no defense other than their strong immune systems and healthy lifestyles. Gordon suspected that an unusually busy month had contributed to him being run down enough to succumb to this particular cold.

He started to shiver, even though the early morning tropical sun was already warming up the pool area. Miserably, Gordon wrapped his towel around himself like a blanket and trudged back to his room, where he changed into sweatpants, a hooded jacket and thick socks – a far cry from his normal shorts and T-shirt. He looked longingly toward his bed, but had just enough stubbornness left to resist its siren call.

Gordon was still shivering, so he grabbed a throw blanket off the end of his bed and draped it over his shoulders.

As he shuffled from his room, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and grimaced at how pathetic he looked – he'd have to find some way to hide from his brothers, or he would never hear the end of it. He stubbornly pushed away the thought of how nice it would be if Scott or Virgil were there to tuck him back into bed and fetch him a hot cup of tea. He was a grown man, and he didn't need anyone to look after him!

He made his way to the kitchen. A glance at his watch assured him that no one else was up yet except for Scott, and he would still be out on his daily run. Looking askance at the coffee pot, he set the kettle on the stove instead, and fixed himself tea with honey – Grandma always insisted that they drink the concoction when they were sick, and as much as they all complained about the taste, it did help with a sore throat.

Wrapping his fingers around the steaming mug, Gordon stood irresolute in the middle of the kitchen. He only had a few minutes, he knew, until people would start trickling into the room one by one; he'd better be cleared out by then. But where could he go? The only place he _wanted_ to go was back to bed, but that would guarantee intense smothering from all three of his older brothers – John was planet-side, with Alan up on Five for the month. The loungers by the pool were a no-go for the same reason.

The best his muddled brain could come up with was a retreat to his Thunderbird. No one would know he wasn't working, he reasoned, and he could sleep all day and hopefully be feeling better in time for dinner.

He grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled, "With Four. Don't expect me for lunch. –Gordon." He left the note on the table. While it was definitely a little unusual for him to skip a meal, he hoped his brothers would attribute it to a backlog of maintenance projects.

Scooping up a water bottle and a few snacks, in case his appetite returned at some point during the day, he headed down to the hangar. In just a few minutes, he had Thunderbird Four's seat tilted to the perfect angle so that he could curl up under his blanket. The touch of a button filled the cabin with warmth, and Gordon sighed with relief as his shivers finally subsided. He dozed off almost immediately.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It took two cups of coffee before Virgil began to frown thoughtfully. He picked up Gordon's note and read it again – he'd glanced at it when he had first entered the kitchen, but it hadn't really registered.

"Gordon? Skip lunch? I don't think so," he told the empty room. He spoke into his watch. "Gordon, come in."

There was no response. His frown intensified, and he tried again. "Gordon, do you read me?"

Still nothing. Okay, time to go for the big guns. "Scott, come in."

"Yeah, Virg, what's up?"

"Did you see Gordon this morning? What's this about him skipping lunch?"

"No, I didn't see him at all – he had already left the kitchen by the time I got my breakfast. He's been talking about how behind he is on maintenance, though, so I guess he decided to just get it done."

Virgil rolled his eyes. Scott was one of those kinds of people who got so caught up in his work that he would probably skip lunch _every_ day if he didn't have family members who reminded him to eat. "Well, it's not like him," Virgil said. "I just tried calling him, and he didn't answer."

That got Scott into Smother Mode in a hurry. "What?" His voice was suddenly sharp. "Okay, I'm on my way to Pod Four from the gym. Where are you now?"

"Just leaving the kitchen," Virgil replied, hurrying down the hall.

He and Scott met at an intersection in the hallway – and John happened to be coming from another direction. John studied them speculatively.

"You guys look like you're on a mission," he said. "What's going on?"

"Gordon's skipping lunch," Virgil told him.

"And he isn't answering his wrist comm.," Scott added.

"Ah, so the Smother Twins ride again," John said dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, I thought the note was a little weird too, but as for the wrist comm., maybe he just has his music on too loud like he usually does when he's working." Despite his words, he tagged along after his brothers.

Pod Four was eerily dark and quiet, with just one light on. There were no tools in sight, and more importantly, no Gordon.

Scott flicked on the main Pod lights.

Everyone's eyes went automatically to Thunderbird Four, and they all frowned at the same time.

"What _is_ that?" Virgil muttered, staring through the glass at the fuzzy blue shape in the pilot's seat.

John suddenly laughed. "It's that dolphin blanket Alan got him for Christmas a couple years ago! You guys were worried for nothing – he's just taking a nap in there!"

Virgil was still frowning, though. "But he almost never takes naps. And besides, he's a light sleeper – why didn't he wake up when I called?" He keyed in the entry code and made his way to the cockpit, fighting off the slight claustrophobia he always got when he was in his brother's Thunderbird.

The cockpit was almost uncomfortably warm. Virgil pulled the fuzzy blanket away from Gordon's face, wondering how the aquanaut could breathe under there.

Gordon was sweating, but instinctively tried to pull the blanket more tightly around himself. He didn't wake up as Virgil put a hand on his forehead.

"He's definitely got a fever," Virgil told Scott and John, who had followed him inside the submarine. He gently shook Gordon's shoulder. "Hey, Gords, time to wake up."

Gordon stirred. He blinked sleepily at the three of them, then groaned. "Can't you guys _read_?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.

"We can read very well, thank you," Virgil replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Sometimes we can even read in between the lines," John added smugly.

Gordon just groaned again, and pulled his blanket back up over his head. "Just go away and leave me alone," he muttered. "I'll be fine after I sleep for a bit."

"You can sleep, but you need to be in your bed," Scott told him sternly.

"I'm fine here," Gordon said mulishly.

"And what if we get a rescue call that requires Four?"

"Then I'll be saved a few steps."

"Uh, yeah, I don't think so," Scott said. "C'mon, Squirt, on your feet!"

Scott and Virgil worked together to pull Gordon to his feet while John turned the cockpit heater off. Bundling their shivering brother up tightly in his blanket, they guided him back upstairs to his room.

In just a few minutes, Scott was tucking him into bed while Virgil went to get a thermometer and John headed to the kitchen to put on water for more tea.

When Virgil came back into the room, Gordon stared at him with sleepy amber eyes. "How did you know I was sick?" he asked, making a face as Virgil stuck the thermometer under his tongue.

"Super powers," Virgil told him calmly. "I can sense illness or injury within a five-mile radius." He pulled the thermometer back out of Gordon's mouth. He sighed as he looked at the number and exchanged a look with Scott. "Don't go to sleep yet, Gordon. I want to give you some medicine."

"Hmm…super powers. That explains a lot," Gordon murmured, watching as Virgil left the room. "I'll have to remember to tell Alan."

John walked in with a mug of tea.

"John?"

"Yeah, Gords?"

"What's your super power?"

"Huh?"


	8. Chapter 8

_I had a request a while ago for Virgil to try to hide a more serious injury. Here it is!_

 _I don't own the Thunderbirds, and I am making no profit from this story._

It's a bad one. I can tell the instant it happens. I make sure all my lines of communication are closed before I let out a tight hiss of pain, though – we can't spare the time for me to be hurt.

An explosion has rocked the building we've just finished evacuating, its force tumbling us off our feet. It's as if a giant hand picks me up and flings me to the debris-strewn ground. My head glances off something hard, but I find that the stars flashing in front of my vision are of little concern compared to the sensation of a short piece of rebar punching through the skin between my ribs.

My little cluster of evacuees pick themselves up off their feet, scared but looking no worse for wear. I'm glad for them – honestly, I am, but I can't help but grumble slightly as I discover that every breath feels like a knife is being jabbed into my back.

It's not exactly recommended to remove oneself from an object one has been impaled with, but unfortunately, it's what I have to do – that building is coming _down_ , and I'd rather not be under it when it falls.

So before I can take the time to imagine how much it's going to hurt, I sit up. And yes, it does hurt. A really, really lot. Like, I'm trying not to puke right now.

But there's no time to puke, so I swallow hard and push myself up to my feet.

Okay, so the dizziness is a slight issue. Which way do we need to go to get to safety? My mouth comes up with a clever solution, apparently receiving input from my brain that I'm not aware of, because I feel like I'm listening to a stranger as I speak. "You, lead the way," I say, pointing to a husky man who looks like the type who doesn't mind taking charge. "I'll stay in the back in case anyone needs help."

The man nods decisively and charges down the street, the six other evacuees trailing after him. Somehow, I keep up with them, my feet stumbling but still moving.

There's a voice talking over my wrist comm. – Scott, checking in with me and Gordon to make sure we're okay after the explosion, and that we're moving away from the crumbling building.

I'm not sure what I say to him, but apparently it makes sense, because he doesn't go all Smother Brother on me – not yet, anyway. I know it's coming, but he's got his own group of victims to worry about for now, and I don't want him to be distracted.

So I soldier on, wondering where we're going, and hoping there's a brother there to catch me when I fall.

We're a safe distance away when the ground shakes again – the building has completely collapsed now.

Eventually we come to a halt. I see lots of people, headed by two familiar figures. I'm grateful to notice a large number of ambulances standing by – I don't think I'm up to providing medical support for all these people today.

I hand my people off to a police officer and avoid lighted areas as I make my way back to my Bird, my feet carrying me automatically. It occurs to me that now might be a good time to let Scott know I could use a hand, but I decide that it would take far too much energy to raise my arm enough to use my wrist comm. He'll notice my disappearance soon enough and come looking for me.

Once I'm aboard Two, I head for the sickbay, more because it's nearby than because I actually intend to do anything about my injuries. Still, long habit has me opening drawers and pulling out things I think I'll need – an IV line, fluids, a bag of blood, and bandages… _lots_ of bandages.

That's about when my vision starts to tunnel. I aim for the bed, but I have no idea if I make it before things black out.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I awake to a familiar, steady beeping sound – the heart monitor in the island infirmary. It has a slightly different tone than the one on Thunderbird Two. I'm on my stomach, and I immediately try to roll over, but freeze at the stab of pain that shoots through my back. The beeping of the heart monitor picks up speed.

"Hey, Virg, take it easy."

A soft voice soothes me, a calloused hand running through my hair – Scott.

Moving very slowly and cautiously, I raise myself up just enough to turn my head to the other side so I can see him. The movement starts up a dull throbbing in my head, and I remember that I probably have a concussion.

Scott looks terrible – pale and washed out, with tired lines creasing his face. His eyes are nearly gray today, full of storm clouds that have blotted out the normal blue.

"How do you feel?" he asks first, choosing a neutral question.

"Sore," I reply. My voice sounds dry and weak. "Is it still Tuesday?"

"No – Thursday," he says.

I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. "I guess I lost a lot of blood, huh?"

The storm in his eyes is really raging now, but he's still speaking quietly. "Let's just say that the blood bank in Two will need to be restocked."

I shut my eyes. "Sorry."

That one, simple word sets him off.

"Virgil," he says, and his voice is suddenly saturated with emotion. "Why didn't you call?"

I sigh, wincing as pain stabs through my chest. "At first, it was because I knew we had to move fast to get away from the building. Later I was just out of it – I wasn't exactly thinking clearly. Besides, I knew you'd find me." I try to smile at him.

"I didn't find you," he says flatly. "Gordon did."

That makes me flinch.

"There was so much blood that he thought you were dead. He called me, and he was panicking. I had to talk him through checking your pulse. He's still all shaken up – I think he's been in the pool most of this time."

There's still only one thing I can say, but there's more meaning behind it this time. "I'm sorry, Scott."

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks me up and down, and finally a tiny, forgiving smile lightens his tired expression. "Yeah, you'd better be sorry," he growls. "You up for a visitor?"

"Sure."

He holds his watch up to his mouth. "Gordon? He's awake." He stands and stretches; the various pops and crackles reveal that he's been sitting there a while. He looks down at me, and his eyes are back to blue, alight with warmth. He doesn't say anything else, just puts a hand on my shoulder for a moment, then slips out of the room. I know he'll be back after Gordon has visited.

Next time, I think, perhaps I will call for help. Then again, we Tracy men always say that, don't we?


	9. Chapter 9

_This chapter is in fulfillment of a request from MartialArtsDancer. Thanks to KuraiTamashii and ScribeOfRED for encouraging me as I got back into this story._

At lunch, Scott just picks at his food. I keep half an eye on him, but I'm really not too concerned – we've just come off a spate of grueling rescues, and we're all too tired to have much of an appetite.

Even when Scott sits back with a sigh and massages his temples, I mentally dismiss his headache, attributing it to dehydration or lack of sleep. I've got a touch of a headache myself, even though I've been careful to keep myself hydrated.

Then, suddenly, alarm bells go off in my head…oh, wait, that's just the klaxon. _Sigh_. Here we go again. Brave rescuers to the rescue.

Something a tiny bit off about Scott does catch my attention as we rush to our chutes, though – are his eyes a little too bright? His face a little too red? – but then the painting of the rocket is sliding me into my chute, and long habit has me pushing away all thoughts that don't have to do with the upcoming rescue.

By the time I get to the danger zone and set Two down in a vacant parking lot, Scott is already on the roof of a tall, flat-topped office building, setting up equipment to rappel down to a window cleaner. The man had been injured when his scaffold was shaken around during the earthquake that had brought us to the scene.

Scott tells us to join him on the roof.

Gordon, Alan and I reach the scene just as Scott is about to step over the edge of the roof and rappel down. He pauses to wipe sweat off his forehead and gesture to the Stokes stretcher he has set up nearby.

"Be ready to send the stretcher down in a minute," he says.

I study him, noticing that he seems unusually flushed. "Need an extra set of hands down there?" I offer.

He shrugs. "Nah. It's a narrow platform. It's going to be a tight fit as it is." Glancing down to make sure his path is clear, he drops out of sight over the lip of the flat roof.

We prepare the Stokes, looping the rope around a sturdy pipe and adjusting the pulley. I wonder why Scott is choosing to use such an old-fashioned method of extracting a patient – it would be faster, not to mention safer, to use Two's rescue platform.

I lean over the edge to check on Scott's progress and get a first look at our patient. I grimace as I see the male patient's coloring – he's definitely not doing well at all. A gash on his head shows that he probably fell and hit his head on the railing of the scaffold he now lies on.

Then something about Scott's movements catches my eye, and my frown deepens. Scott isn't moving with his normal lithe grace. As he positions himself on the narrow platform and bends down to check the victim's pulse, he sways slightly and has to sit back, putting a hand on the rail to steady himself.

"Scott?" I call out.

He doesn't seem to hear me. Moving sluggishly, he attaches the safety clip on his harness to the lower rail of the scaffold and bends over the patient again – but then his forward motion continues, and he hits the edge of the platform and rolls off into empty space.

"Scott!" I scream, my heart freezing in my chest for the split second that he's falling.

Then his safety harness jerks him to a halt, leaving his limp figure swinging back and forth under the platform, and I start breathing again – albeit a little too fast.

Gordon and Alan are crowding up behind me, and I spin around to face them. "Scott's collapsed," I tell them quickly, lunging for one of our supply bags in search of another safety harness. "Get Two in the air and lower the rescue platform!"

Their eyes widen – I don't often hand off control of my Bird – but they have enough experience to obey quickly and without question. I hurriedly buckle myself into a harness and set up a line, then back up to the side of the building and drop over the edge.

The wind buffets me as I walk down the brick wall. I reach the scaffold and lower myself cautiously down onto it, making sure it can take my weight in addition to the two other people it's supporting. I tie off my line and bend over the first victim, sparing Scott a quick glance and heaving a sigh of relief when I can see that he at least seems to breathing fine. As much as I want to tend to my brother first, though, I know that the window washer probably needs my help more urgently.

By the time Thunderbird Two is above us, I have the man ready for transport. Gordon rides the platform down and guides it into position so that we can just slide the victim onto one of the two stretchers he has set up.

As we work, I see Gordon cast one glance down toward our dangling oldest brother, but Gordon is usually rock solid in a crisis, and even though he's obviously worried, he doesn't falter now. Once we have the earthquake victim on the stretcher, Gordon slides him to the far edge so that there's room on the rescue platform for me and Scott.

Gordon attaches the earthquake victim's stretcher to safety hooks and begins a patient assessment.

While Gordon is focusing on the first victim, I talk Alan into the right position to pick up Scott – a delicate undertaking in such tight quarters. I'm probably a little more snappish than I need to be, but for once Alan doesn't snap back. In fact, he handles the situation with a good deal more professionalism than I do. In a distant part of my mind, I feel bad, but I can apologize later – right now, my entire focus is on Scott's flushed face and closed eyes.

The rescue platform is finally in position directly under Scott. I swing down onto it and nod to Gordon, who hurries over to help me, his face and eyes unusually sober.

I lift Scott up a tiny bit, just enough for Gordon to unsnap the safety line, and then I'm grunting as I take on all of Scott's weight. It always startles me how much heavier Scott is than he looks.

Gordon helps me ease him gently down onto the second stretcher.

"He's hot!" Gordon exclaims in surprise, laying his hand on Scott's sweaty forehead.

Scott's clothes are drenched with sweat. He groans and moves his head around a little, slowly blinking his eyes open. "Virg?" he says weakly. "What – what happened?"

"You're sick," I tell him, and the words sound strange coming out of my mouth – Scott almost _never_ gets sick. "Just hang in there – I'm going to take you back to the island, and we'll have you feeling better in no time."

He groans again. "But what about the rescue?" His eyes widen and he tries to sit up. "The victim! We need to help him!"

I hold him down. "Hey, hey, calm down, Scott! We've got him. See, he's over there." I point to the stretcher on the opposite side of the platform. "We've got everything under control, so I want you to just relax. I'm going to take you home in One and leave Two here with Gordon and Alan so they can keep working."

Gordon shoots me a quick, surprised glance, but doesn't say anything.

The rescue platform slides up into the underbelly of Thunderbird Two, cutting out a lot of noise and leaving us blinking as our eyes adjust to the lower light level.

As Gordon hurries away to retrieve a couple gurneys, Scott tries to sit up again. "I can fly One home," he says. "That way you can stay with the kids."

"And have you pass out again? Not on your life!" I keep one hand firmly on Scott's chest.

Scott settles back down, his eyes sliding shut. "But you hate flying One," he sighs.

He's phrasing it politely. We both know that what he really means is that he hates anyone besides him flying One.

Gordon slides in next to us with a gurney. "We're over the hospital now. I assume we're dropping our other patient off here?"

I nod, and together we maneuver Scott onto the gurney. Scott doesn't even try to help us, which scares me a lot more than I would care to admit. How had he gone from being his normal self to being almost completely incapacitated within the span of just a few hours? I know I'll probably be talking with Brains most of the way home, hashing out possible diagnoses.

I check on the other patient, nodding in approval as I see that Gordon has started an I.V. on him and begun administering oxygen. The man's vitals have improved slightly, which is a good sign.

We inform the hospital of our arrival – just a formality, since it's unlikely they'll miss a huge green ship hovering over them – and lower our victim down onto the hospital's helicopter pad. I have to say that it's strange being at this end of the operation instead of in the cockpit.

The moment the earthquake victim is off the ship, I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders – now I'm free to focus all of my attention on Scott.

Since I'll be bringing him home in the minimalistic Thunderbird One, I take advantage of Two's med bay to set him up with an I.V. so that I can at least start to get some fluids into him.

Alan flies us back to Thunderbird One. Thankfully Brains designed the scout ship with a built-in gurney that adjusts automatically to compensate for either vertical or horizontal flight, so it's just a matter of transferring Scott from one ship to another.

He doesn't make it easy. I think the I.V. has perked him up a little, and he won't let us carry him on a stretcher. He insists on walking between the two ships, and even manages to climb the ladder up into One. That's as far as his legs will take him, even though I can see in his eyes that he'd love to try to make a break for his pilot's seat.

As he collapses onto the gurney, he growls in frustration. "This is stupid." He's shivering now, even though he's still sweating.

I lay a cooling blanket over him and buckle the straps of the gurney. Looking down at his flushed face and too-bright eyes, I can't help but sigh. "Why didn't you tell me this morning that you weren't feeling well?"

A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Because you wouldn't have let me come on the rescue."

It's my turn to growl in frustration. "Well, _duh_!"

Reluctantly, I walk to the pilot's chair. As soon as I sit in it, I remember everything I hate about flying Thunderbird One – a fact only emphasized when the speed of my lift off makes me feel like I'm going to punch a hole straight through the atmosphere with One's ridiculously pointy nose.

Oops. "Sorry!" I call over my shoulder. "She's a bit more, uh, _sensitive_ than I'm used to."

"Hey, I'm always up for visiting John," Scott mutters, his knuckles white as he clutches the edges of the gurney.

Eventually things smooth out a little, although I'm still a bit jittery about how fast things happen in my brother's ship. I end up not daring to take my mind off my flying for long enough to go into a detailed consultation with Brains; I simply call home and tell Dad that Scott is sick and that I'll need Brains' help when I get back.

Dad responds with typical calmness, but I notice that he leaves the line open, and that John is also listening in.

Every fifteen minutes, I put Thunderbird One on autopilot for just long enough to check Scott's vital signs and temperature. For that reason, I'm very aware of how quickly his temperature is rising. Despite the cooling blanket, by the time we're ten minutes from home his temperature has climbed to 104 degrees Fahrenheit – a full degree higher than the first time I had checked.

I come in hot for my landing and nearly clip off the diving board, but thankfully I manage to miss it with a quick twist at the last second, thus saving myself from weeks of ridicule.

I heave a huge sigh of relief as I set my brother's Bird down and watch the pool begin to close overhead. That was an adventure that I hoped I wouldn't have to repeat any time soon – "soon," of course, referring to any time within the next fifty years.

"Almost hit the diving board," I call over my shoulder. "I really don't see how you can stand flying this thing!"

There's no response. Alarmed, I jolt around and one quick glance toward Scott has me leaping to my feet despite the slightly unstable footing as the track automatically carries Thunderbird One deeper into the hangar.

"Scott?" I say, bending over my brother.

His eyes look glassy and unfocused, but he does turn his head toward me. "Virg," he whispers, "I don't feel very good."

I check his temperature one more time and I can't help but wince when I see the number – 105. As Thunderbird One finally stops moving, I get a hover stretcher set up and pull Scott over onto it.

When I guide the stretcher out into the hangar, Dad and Brains are waiting for us. Dad takes control of the stretcher, leaving me free to brief Brains as we hurry toward the infirmary.

"Scott may have started to feel sick at lunch," I tell Brains. "But it didn't really seem to hit him hard until we got to the danger zone. He passed out for a few minutes, and ever since he woke up, he's been kind of drifting in and out of awareness. His fever's been climbing at the rate of about a degree every half hour."

"It, uh, sounds like it could be some type of, uh, virus," Brains says. "As soon as we have him in the inf-infirm, uh, exam room, I'll draw some blood."

We reach the infirmary and slide Scott onto a bed. Brains immediately goes to work getting Scott's blood sample.

"Should I give him anything to help bring his fever down?" I ask, mentally sorting through the medicines we keep in supply.

Brains shakes his head. "Not until I, uh, identify the virus," he says firmly. "The wrong medicine may have adverse affects on Scott's, uh, condition. You may, however, con-con, uh, keep on using the cooling blanket." Clutching his sample, he hurries out of the room, presumably heading for his lab. I know that we're linked to international databases so that all Brains has to do is upload the blood sample, and the computer should identify the virus.

As I adjust the cooling blanket and make sure Scott's I.V. hasn't shifted while we've moved him around, I try to think how many countries we've been to recently. I grimace – it's a large number, particularly when you consider that Scott could have been exposed weeks ago. Some illnesses have a lengthy incubation.

Dad had slipped away a few minutes ago; he returns with a bowl of ice water and a hand towel. Soaking the cloth in the cold water and wringing it out, he lays it across Scott's forehead.

That gets Scott's eyes open. "Dad?"

"I'm here, son," Dad says softly, gently squeezing Scott's shoulder. "Don't worry – Virgil and Brains are going to have you feeling better soon."

I hope he's right. Impatient, I poke my head into the hallway.

My timing is perfect – Brains is just returning. He doesn't look too excited, but I know better than to judge him by the expression on his face.

I step into the hallway to meet him.

He doesn't waste words. "I have good news and bad news," he says. "The good news – Scott's vi-vi, uh, illness is very treatable."

"And the bad news?" I ask, my stomach fluttering nervously.

"There is only one med-med, uh, drug that has proven effective, and it is hard to come by. In fact, I need you to collect the components so that I can synthesize the drug in my lab." He pauses, nervously adjusting his glasses. "And, uh, Virgil?"

"Yeah?" I answer hesitantly, something telling me that I'm not going to care for what Brains says next.

"You will want to hurry. Without treatment, most patients die within, uh, twelve to twenty-four hours of the onset of the fever."

I jolt back a step. " _Die_?" I gasp. Somehow, even though the severity of Scott's symptoms had startled me, it hadn't crossed my mind that his illness might be more than just an unpleasant inconvenience. I drag my fingers through my hair, trying to get a grip on myself and corral all the unruly thoughts that have suddenly sprung into existence. Only one thought needs to be in my mind right now: _Hurry._

"Okay," I say. "Okay. Uh, where do you need me to go?"

"I'll upload the coordinates to Th-Thunderbird One now. Just remember, Virgil – it will take, uh, several hours to synthesize the drug, so you must not waste any time."

"Oh, I won't," I say grimly. I'm in such a hurry that I don't even give Scott and Dad a proper goodbye. I just poke my head back into the infirmary and quickly say, "Hey, Scotty, Brains needs a certain drug, and we don't have it here, so I'm just going to run out and grab it. Hang in there, okay?"

Scott lifts a hand in a weak wave. "Don't crash my Bird," he mumbles.

Dad shoots me a questioning glance, but I just shake my head and duck back out into the hallway, hurrying back toward Thunderbird One's hangar. I don't have time to fill Dad in; Brains can update him once I'm on my way.

A couple minutes later, I wince as I drop into One's pilot's seat. So much for not flying her again in the next fifty years.

The navigation screen lights up, and I wince again as I study the course Brains has set for me – he's got me covering a good portion of the globe. Suddenly, as much as I long to be back in my own Bird, I'm grateful to have One. Two would never make it in time.

The countdown sounds, and then I'm being pressed back into my seat by the thrust of the engines. One isn't quite as intense as Three, but it's still a lot more G-force than I'm used to, and my tired body doesn't appreciate the pressure. I'm grateful when I reach altitude and can switch to horizontal flight.

John's face suddenly fills the comm. screen. He looks confused. "Virg? Where are you going?" he demands.

I'm surprised he hadn't listened in on my conversation with Brains, but perhaps he'd been busy with something else – the rescue Gordon and Alan are still running, for example. Huh. I'd almost forgotten about those two. Hopefully they're making out all right. "Brains needs a certain collection of drugs to treat Scott," I tell him.

He studies my face, and senses that I'm not telling him everything. " _Or_ …?" he prompts.

I sigh. "Or Scott might die," I say quietly, the wave of disbelief hitting me all over again. "In twelve to twenty-four hours."

John is startled – and it takes a lot to throw him for a loop. "But…but, he seemed _fine_ on the way to the rescue this morning! How could he go from fine to…to _dying_ in the space of a few hours?"

He's clicking things – probably pulling up the video feed in the infirmary. Sure enough, a moment later his mouth tightens. "He looks really bad," he says quietly. He shoots me a glance. "Virg…if it's this serious, should I call Gordon and Alan back?"

I hesitate. It is serious. And if anything should happen while the two youngest are on a rescue, they'll never forgive us for not calling them home. Then I realize where my thoughts are going, and cut them off with a sharp hand gesture. "No. Scott's going to be fine," I say firmly.

I'm already closing in on the first set of coordinates – a hospital in Australia. Someone gets on the radio and directs me to a large, mostly-empty parking lot some distance from the buildings. I set down and open the cockpit door, sliding down the ladder like I've seen Scott do before. My landing isn't as graceful as his, but I don't care.

A couple of ladies dressed in scrubs are waiting for me, holding a small case. I'm grateful that they don't seem to expect me to exchange much in the way of pleasantries – they just hold out the case, smiling warmly.

"Thank you," I say, taking the case perhaps a little more quickly than is really polite.

They don't seem to mind.

"Anything for International Rescue," one of the women replies.

The other adds, "Godspeed!"

I'm already halfway up the ladder, so I just wave.

I touch down briefly in India, Germany, and the U.K. Then I hop across the Atlantic to Boston. My final stop will be in California, and then I'll be on my way home, having circled the globe. _All in a day's work_ , I think wearily, glancing down as I pass high above the Rocky Mountains. Just a few minutes later, I'm setting down in a parking lot behind yet another hospital.

I climb down the ladder – I've decided by this point that sliding down it is too hard on the knees – and look around for helpful people holding a case, just like there have been at all the other hospitals. I frown when I don't see anyone.

I raise my watch to my mouth. "Hey, John?"

"What's up, Virg?" John asks.

"Can you call up the hospital here and find out what's going on? There's no one outside to meet me."

"I'm on it," John replies.

I take advantage of the opportunity to call the island and check on Scott. Dad answers his watch quickly. He looks tired, but he gives me a warm smile.

"How's Scott?" I ask.

"Well, so far Brains has managed to keep his temperature from climbing any higher, but he can't get it to go down at all. Where are you now, son?"

I have to think about that for a second. "Uh…California. Yeah, I'm in California. It's my last stop, but there seems to be some kind of a delay. John's looking into it for me."

Speaking of John, he suddenly bursts back into the conversation.

"Virgil!" he snaps. "There's been a major pileup on the highway a couple blocks away from the hospital, and there's a loaded passenger bus balanced on the edge of an overpass. It could go over before the local agencies can get there!"

Instinct has me leaping for the ladder, but I hesitate halfway up as I realize that this will mean a delay in my strict timetable. "But what about Scott?"

"Go, you idiot." Scott's voice is still able to hold authority even when it's so weak that I can barely hear the muttered words. "I promise I'll still be here when you get back."

I sigh. "Okay, Scotty. I'll hold you to that."

At least all the flights in One today have smoothed off the worst of the rough edges of my technique – it takes finesse to get close enough to attach the magnetic cable to the bus without letting my downdraft complicate things.

I keep tension on the line for almost half an hour, preventing the bus from tipping over the edge of the overpass while the rescue crews on the ground extract the passengers. I'm chafing the entire time, willing the people far below me to move just a little bit faster. Every minute I spend here is one minute that I could be using to fly home, that Brains could be using to synthesize the drug, that Scott could be using to begin his recovery.

But, still…I'm here, and I try to remind myself that everyone on that bus has someone who cares about their survival as much as I care about Scott's.

And so, once all the passengers have been moved, I take the time to pull the bus into a more secure position on the overpass so that there's no way it will fall off onto anyone driving below.

I'm jittery by the time I'm released from the scene. I hop Thunderbird One back to the hospital parking lot, and this time people are waiting for me.

I slide down the ladder, ignoring the jarring sensation in my knees as my feet hit the pavement.

"Sorry for the delay," a man in scrubs tells me. "We were preparing in case we got a sudden influx of patients from that pileup. Thanks to you, though, only a few people were injured."

I'll probably be happy later, but right now, I could care less. The clock is ticking.

I snatch up the case the man is holding. "Great, thanks!" I hurry back to Thunderbird One without a backward glance.

I keep all of One's gauges hovering right at the red line all the way home, and in twenty minutes, I'm dropping her back down into the silo for the second time that day.

There's a tiny, barely-audible crunching sound as One descends past the pool. I'm not sure what it is, and I quickly forget about it as I gather all the cases of medical supplies I've accumulated during my quick round-the-world trip and impatiently wait for Thunderbird One to stop moving.

The rocket plane finally jolts into place, and I make my exit. I'm almost sprinting on the way to Brains' lab, and I nearly bowl the scientist over as I burst into the room.

"Ah, thank you, Virgil," he says calmly, as if I'd just bopped out to the corner store to grab him some milk for his cereal.

He lays the cases out on a workbench where he has all kinds of equipment already set up.

"Need help?" I ask. I restrain the urge to dance in place like Gordon sometimes does when he's antsy. I feel pulled in two directions – if Brains needs me here, then I'll stay in the lab…but all I _want_ is to see Scott.

He glances up at me, and his expression says that he had already forgotten that I was even in the room. "Ah, no thank you, Virgil."

And then he bends back over his work.

Thus dismissed, I waste no time in making my way back to the infirmary. I grimace as I realize that it's been roughly four hours since I had left – I had figured that the trip would only take me three hours. I can only hope that my delay hasn't cost too much of Scott's time.

My steps unconsciously grow softer as I approach the door to the infirmary, so that I'm practically tip-toeing by the time I look around the doorframe.

Scott still hears me, though, and slowly turns his head to look at me. He doesn't seem to have the energy to smile, but his eyes light up a little and he flicks his fingers in an attempt at a wave.

Dad turns too; I'd guess that he hasn't left Scott's side this entire time, except perhaps to get more ice water. "Welcome back, son," he says quietly. "How was your flight?"

I shrug. "Fine. I still hate flying Thunderbird One, but I made out okay."

I glance toward Scott, expecting some sort of a response, but his eyes are already closed again.

Dad sees my face fall and looks down at Scott, picking up his limp hand and holding it between both of his. "He's been fading in and out this whole time."

"You spoke with Brains?" I ask.

He nods, and his eyes fill with a deep, intense sadness for one moment before he sets his jaw. "Yes, I did. It's a dire situation, but I know that Scott will pull through. He's got a lot of things going for him – not least of which is a brother willing to fly all the way around the world collecting the medicine he needs to fight this virus." Dad's eyes soften as he looks me up and down. "Why don't you go get some dinner, Virgil? You didn't eat much lunch, and you haven't stopped moving since then."

I'm really not very hungry. "Thanks, Dad, but I'm okay. I just want to see Scott start to improve, and then I'll take a break."

I putter around for a few minutes, checking Scott's vitals and temperature, adjusting the cooling blanket, and switching out his I.V. bag, but eventually there's nothing else to do but slump into a chair and watch the steady rise and fall of Scott's chest.

For a while, the only movement in the room is when Dad periodically switches out the cloth on Scott's forehead with a fresh, cold one.

After an hour, a dull rumble in the floor announces Gordon and Alan's return. They show up in the infirmary ten minutes later, their faces an interesting mix of exhausted, triumphant and worried. It's not often that they get to complete a rescue on their own – in fact, I'm not sure that anything quite like this has _ever_ happened before – and I suspect that they would be hollering the place down if it weren't for the sight of our oldest brother's sweat-drenched form lying so still on the infirmary bed.

John must have filled them in, as they don't ask any questions. After a minute, they head off to take showers and get changed.

After a little while, they rejoin us, and I have no doubt that John is watching through the video feed. Alan curls up in a chair and drops into a light doze, and Gordon looks like he's practically sleeping with his eyes open, but I know better than to suggest that they go to their bedrooms.

The night creeps past, and Scott doesn't wake up again.

Every hour that passes, I fight the urge to check on Brains' progress, knowing that he works best without interruption.

Midnight comes and goes – meaning roughly twelve hours have passed since Scott began to feel the effects of his illness. I start pacing.

At one in the morning, Scott's fever spikes to 106, and his breathing starts to become labored.

And at two o'clock, we all leap to our feet when Brains rushes into the room, clutching a vial of clear fluid. "I-it's ready," he gasps. He's excited, but his hands are steady as he draws some of the liquid up into a syringe and injects it into Scott's I.V. line.

"And n-now we, uh, wait," he says into the expectant silence.

I see Gordon and Alan exchange a look and roll their eyes at each other before they sink back into their seats. They're more alert than before, though, and I can see the hint of hope in their faces.

It's far from an immediate result. Scott's temperature holds steady at 106. Dad faithfully keeps switching the cool cloth on his forehead every few minutes, as he's done for hours now.

Brains injects more of the medicine around three o'clock.

By four in the morning, Scott's breathing has smoothed out a little, and when I check his temperature, I'm startled to see that it has finally dropped by a couple degrees. My sigh of relief has everyone looking at me.

"103," I announce.

Suddenly I'm surrounded by smiles that light up the tired faces around me.

By five o'clock, Scott has finally stopped sweating, and appears to be sleeping comfortably. Brains declares him out of danger.

Gordon and Alan drag themselves off to bed, sleepily smiling.

Dad and I eye each other.

"You should really get some sleep," Dad says softly. "You had a busy day yesterday."

I cross my arms over my chest. Sleep sounds amazing, but I don't think I can really rest until I've watched Scott a little longer and allowed it to sink in that he's really going to be okay. "Oh, and you didn't? You've hardly moved from that spot since yesterday afternoon, Dad. _You_ should go to bed. I can stay with Scott."

Brains looks between the two of us, clearly confused. "I, uh, have never understood the purpose of staying beside someone who, uh, will likely n-not wake up for several more hours."

Dad chuckles. "Well, Brains, I think it's usually more for our comfort than for Scott's benefit." He slowly pushes himself to his feet, grimacing as he stretches limbs that haven't moved in a while. "Very well, Virgil. I'll catch a couple hours' sleep, and then come relieve you."

"Take your time," I murmur, dropping into the chair he had just vacated and fastening my eyes on Scott's relaxed face. As I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, I find myself gradually drooping forward. Finally I give up the fight, resting my arms on the edge of the mattress and laying my head down – just for a minute, I tell myself.

And just a minute later, I snap awake, sitting up with a groan and blinking as the sun streams into the room.

Wait…the sun doesn't hit this side of the building until the late afternoon. Bleary-eyed, I look around.

A pair of blue eyes are watching me from a few inches away, twinkling in amusement.

"Hey, sleepyhead," a rough voice says quietly.

And suddenly I'm completely awake and overflowing with happiness. "Scott! How are you feeling?"

He looks drawn and pale, and he's still flat out on his back, but at least now he has the energy to smile. "Better all the time," he says. "Thanks to you and Brains."

I shrug. "Brains did all the work. I was just the errand boy."

He sighs and closes his eyes. "Well, without you, I wouldn't be here now. So thanks, Virg. And sorry for scaring you."

There's a scuffling noise at the door, and Scott and I glance that way.

Gordon and Alan are standing there, their faces lit with unrestrained glee. Wordlessly, Gordon holds up a large piece of wood broken off at one end.

At first I have no idea what it is, but then I suddenly remember a certain crunching noise during my second landing in Thunderbird One the day before. I groan involuntarily, burying my face in my hands.

Right.

I must have killed the diving board.

And now I know I'm going to pay for it with unmerciful teasing in the near future – and probably plenty of pranking, too, based on Gordon's expression.

But as I turn and see Scott's face lit up with amusement as he too realizes what Gordon is holding, I know that I will gladly put up with any amount of teasing.

And I hope that _now_ it's safe to wish that I won't have to fly Thunderbird One again any time soon.

 _A/N – After researching various medical conditions for hours and hours, I finally decided to use a rather vague illness I had seen on a show once. So Scott's illness, and some of the circumstances of his collapse are based on an episode from the old paramedic show Emergency!_


	10. Chapter 10

_This was a request from an unnamed guest who wanted another Alan chapter._

You know it's hot when Scott sets up an ice chest full of water bottles next to Mobile Control and insists that we each stop by and drain a bottle every half hour.

Things are down and dirty at the scene of a forest fire in Chile that has spilled into the outskirts of a large city. The fire started in the early hours of the morning and had a solid foothold by the time they called us in.

The air temperature was fairly cool when we first arrived, but it has been climbing steadily since dawn. It's now midday, and I'd guess that temperatures are in the 90s Fahrenheit.

Of course, considering where we live, we're used to hot weather, but on the other hand, we're not usually doing hours and hours of strenuous work during the hottest part of the day.

I've got it the easiest – I'm in the Firefly, which is air-conditioned. Scott has set up Mobile Control in Two's shadow, so that he can spend most of his time in the shade.

Gordon and Alan, though, are working in the full, blazing sunlight. They've been busy, too – they took a couple hover bikes and trailers loaded with dicetyline, and have been traveling along the edges of the fire, helping evacuees, fighting small fires, and reporting back to Scott with locations that could use the Firefly's bigger dicetyline tanks.

I've just stopped to grab another water bottle and an energy bar when Gordon and Alan pull up to Mobile Control, their empty dicetyline tanks clanking together in the trailers behind their hover bikes. Weary and red faced, they wander over to the ice chest. Gordon fishes out three water bottles, tossing one to me and one to Alan before unscrewing the cap on his own.

Alan stares at the bottle in distaste. "We really should get some Gatorade or something," he says. "At this point, I'll be happy if I never see another water bottle in my life!" He takes a sip anyway.

Scott holds up a box of granola bars; Gordon and I each take one, but Alan grimaces and shakes his head.

Gordon gulps his entire water bottle down in one go, then opens another one and dumps it unceremoniously over his head. "Ah," he sighs. "That's better."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Not a very professional look, there, Gords," he says. He's smiling, though.

Gordon tugs at his damp shirt. "Hey, my clothes are already soaked with sweat. What's a little more water?" He sets another water bottle in the cup holder of his hover bike. "Ready, Al?"

Leaving his half-finished bottle next to Mobile Control, Alan joins Gordon in lugging their empty dicetyline tanks up into Two.

I head back to the Firefly and rumble off to tackle another section of the fire, listening with half an ear to the radio chatter as Alan and Gordon collect fresh tanks of dicetyline and start their patrol again. On Scott's suggestion, they split up this time, Gordon going west and Alan heading east.

As I listen in to their chatter, though, I begin to frown – something's not right. Gordon's reports are quick, crisp and clear, but Alan's sound distant, dull, and there's often a slight delay between Scott's query and Alan's response.

I break into the conversation. "You okay, Al?"

There's a pause. Then a slightly guarded, "Yeah, I'm fine. Why?"

I shrug. "You just sound a little off, that's all. You been drinking enough?"

"Probably," he says. "It's not like you guys have given me much of a choice."

A picture flashes through my mind of a half-full water bottle sitting by Mobile Control, and my frown deepens. "You didn't finish your last bottle, though. How do you feel right now?"

"Hot, miserable, and I have a headache because I forgot my sunglasses," he snaps.

Aha – a headache. That's strike one. "Any dizziness? Muscle cramps?" Remembering the rejected granola bar, I add, "Nausea?"

"Well…"

His hesitation tells me plenty. "All right, Alan, head back to Mobile Control. I'll meet you there. Scott, you want to take over the Firefly, or have Gordon do it?"

"I'll let Gordon do it," he says instantly. "If Alan's got heatstroke, Gordon's probably at risk too. He could use the time in the air conditioning."

"What makes you think I have heatstroke?" Alan grumbles, his voice sounding oddly slow.

I roll my eyes. "Al, you know the symptoms. You should've told us as soon as you started to get overheated."

There's no reply.

"Alan?" I say.

Scott chimes in, his voice tense. "Alan, come in."

Still nothing.

"He may have passed out," I say, my fingers tightening around the Firefly's controls. "Scott, you're the closest…"

"I'm on it," he snaps.

I'm just pulling the Firefly to a stop near Mobile Control when Scott speaks again.

"Found him! He's just a couple blocks away, and yeah, he's out cold. Fell off his bike too. Virg, we're gonna need a hover stretcher and a cervical collar."

I sprint to collect the necessary items. The c-collar is a precaution for possible head, neck and spine injuries. Alan probably doesn't need it, but since we don't know how hard he fell off his bike, it's not worth the risk to skip it.

In moments, I'm guiding the hover stretcher down the narrow twisting streets to Scott and Alan's coordinates, and my stomach gives an unpleasant lurch when I round a corner and see Scott crouching, grim-faced, over our youngest brother's crumpled form.

Scott looks up. "Rapid pulse, shallow breathing, and his skin's hot and dry," he says. "Classic heatstroke – no matter what he said, he definitely hasn't been drinking enough."

I hurry through my patient evaluation, knowing that the most important thing is to move Alan to an air-conditioned location as soon as possible. I wince as I check his temperature.

"105 degrees Fahrenheit," I mutter.

We set him up with the c-collar and get him on the stretcher. This particular stretcher has a modification – a built-in cooling blanket that wraps around the patient, circulating cold water past areas of the body that contain lots of blood vessels close to the skin, such as the neck, armpits and groin.

Scott straps the blanket in place while I set up an I.V. to begin replacing Alan's lost fluids and electrolytes.

"You know, he's right," I say.

"About what?" Scott turns the dial to begin circulating water through the cooling blanket.

"We really should have sports drinks in the cooler too – they're designed to replace electrolytes." I finish with the I.V. and begin navigating the stretcher back toward Thunderbird Two.

Scott mounts Alan's hover bike. "Hmm, true. Okay, I'll bring some next time." He starts to turn the bike around, but then glances toward Alan and hesitates.

"Go ahead," I tell him. "Alan's going to be fine."

He sighs. "Just keep me posted." He begins maneuvering the hover bike into a tight u-turn.

I nod and keep the stretcher moving at a brisk pace back toward Thunderbird Two.

Gordon's voice crackles over my watch. "How's Alan?"

I can hear the deep growl of the Firefly in the background, meaning Gordon has switched vehicles and is already on his way back to the front lines of the fire.

"He's not great right now, but with treatment, he should pull through fine. How are you feeling?" I steer the stretcher into Thunderbird Two and sigh in relief as the coolness of the air-conditioning washes around me.

"Me? I'm fine!" Gordon says. "I've been hydrating like crazy! If the average person is sixty percent water, I'm probably, like, seventy-five percent water right now."

I hear a weak laugh, and a smile grows on my face as I look down and see Alan's eyes open.

"Nice one, Gords," Alan says, his words slow and quiet but lucid.

"Thanks!" Gordon says cheerfully. Then his voice becomes stern. "And _you're_ probably only fifty percent water by this point. Dude, why didn't you drink more? You know better!"

I always find it interesting how Alan will usually take criticism from Gordon very meekly, whereas if any of the rest of us had said that, he'd just become resentful.

Alan sighs, reaching up to try to adjust the c-collar and grimacing when I slap his hand away. "I dunno. I got tired of taking the time to drink so much water, I guess. I just wanted to get the job done, and I figured I could cool off on the flight home."

"Alan," I growl. "You came awfully close to not going home at all. Next time, just tell us you need a break, okay?"

He grumbles under his breath, but says, "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Knowing that's the best I'm going to get out of him, I roll my eyes and ruffle his hair. "Just remember, kiddo, Scott and I are trying _not_ to go gray early like Dad."

He laughs. "Good luck with that!"

"Hey!" Scott puts in over Alan's wrist comm. "I heard that!"

Gordon rejoins the conversation. "I think you guys should own the gray hair – no more dyeing it. You'd look really dapper!"

Scott protests, "Dye? I don't dye my hair!"

I half listen to the conversation as I prepare a scan that will determine whether Alan can be freed from the c-collar. Alan is looking more animated every minute, and I take one moment to stand back and breathe a sigh of relief that I'd listened to my training and my instincts and had pulled him from the field before it was too late.

Our job can be dangerous, and not always for the reasons that you would think.

I smirk – it's a good thing my brothers have me around to catch them before they can get themselves into too much trouble.


	11. Chapter 11

_Okay, folks this is the last chapter that I have planned; I will be marking this story as "complete." This is not to say that I won't ever consider adding another chapter if inspiration strikes, but for now, this is all I have. Thanks so much to everyone for sticking with me through this series – it's been loads of fun!_

 _This is a John chapter, in fulfillment of a request from…well, several people!_

 _Enjoy!_

John looks like a cat – a very wet, very annoyed cat.

He blows a drop of water off the tip of his nose and spears Scott with an icy glare. "Why did Gordon have to be sick today?" he asks coldly, as if Gordon's illness is Scott's fault. "I do not like to be _wet_."

My mind produces a couple of surprisingly Gordon-like retorts – _Then how do you shower, Johnny?_ Or, _This confirms my suspicions that you're actually a robot!_ I bite the words back and duck my head before John notices my smile and glares at me too.

Scott clears his throat and rubs his hand over his mouth in an attempt to get his own facial expression under control. Ignoring John's comments, he skips straight to the more important subject. "Did you clear that section okay? Any problems?"

John shrugs and moves stiffly over to the kitchenette counter, reaching for a coffee mug. "You mean other than everyone trying to bring along pets, luggage, furniture, prize antiques, and frozen slices of wedding cake? No, no problems at all." He fills his cup and takes a huge swig – black. He sighs in contentment, and his shivers subside a little.

I shudder at the thought of drinking it black and gulp down the last of my own creamy, heavily-sweetened coffee. Scott likes his with just two sugars and no cream. I've thought before that how we take our coffee probably reflects our personalities to some extent, but I've never quite dared to voice this thought – Gordon and Alan would probably have a field day with the idea.

I stand up – my break is over. I gesture for John to take my seat at the tiny table, and he settles down with a long, weary sigh.

Something about the movement catches my eye, and I frown, looking him up and down for any signs of injury. "You okay?" I ask.

He wraps his fingers around his coffee mug and allows his features to soften into a half smile as he glances up at me. "Just tired," he replies succinctly. "Going for twelve hours straight on the ground is way different than twelve hours on Five." He nods toward his coffee. "I'll feel more alive in a few minutes."

I cast him one more critical glance, then nod. "All right, well, take an extra five minutes on your break, okay?"

He raises his mug in a mocking salute. "Yes, Doctor."

I roll my eyes and head for the door, wincing as my waterlogged boots squelch loudly with every step. Okay, so Scott and I may have found John's predicament amusing, but I totally agree that being soaking wet for hours at a time really isn't any fun.

We've been at the scene of a widespread Mississippi River flood for nearly twelve hours now, cruising around in large, flat-bottomed hover boats, plucking people from rooftops, stranded vehicles, and small patches of high ground. When we have a full boat, we bring the people to a checkpoint a little ways outside the city, where other emergency aid organizations load them onto buses and bring them to temporary shelters.

The end is in sight, though, which is good, because I think all three of us are relying entirely on caffeine to keep ourselves going at this point. We've just got a few more blocks to evacuate, and then our work here is done.

Steeling myself, I step out of Thunderbird Two's warm hold and into the chilly, biting rain. By the time I'm steering the hover boat toward my designated search area, water is dripping off my eyelashes.

That makes me remember how a couple years earlier, Gordon had asked Brains to make him a pair of goggles with built-in miniature windshield wipers. To everyone's surprise, the inventor had taken him seriously, and Gordon had happily worn the goggles on a couple rescues. Dad and Scott had grumbled about how unprofessional they looked, and the goggles eventually mysteriously disappeared. The joke was on Dad and Scott, though, because unbeknownst to them, Brains had liked the idea so much that he had submitted it to Tracy Industries for general production. The goggles went on to become a huge hit, and Gordon bought himself a whole case of them. He mostly ended up using them to cheer up scared kids, and he still regularly gives away several pairs during each rainy rescue.

As I swipe water away from my eyes with my sopping sleeve for the dozenth time, I almost wish I had a pair of Gordon's goggles, unprofessional or not.

Scott's voice crackles over the comm. system as he returns to his boat, and after a few more minutes, John joins in on the radio chatter as we criss-cross the city searching for people to rescue.

I listen to them – and put in my own occasional reports – with the kind of half-muted attention that comes from years of practice.

I smile as I listen to John and think about how he speaks differently when he's on the ground. His voice is still as cool, calm and collected as ever, but the rhythm of his speech is far less assertive than when he's up on Five. As the team member with the least field experience, he's the low man on the totem pole down here, but he handles his role in typical John fashion – with his own unique combination of dignity and humility. If his pride is rankled by his position on the team, he rarely – if ever – shows it.

After another hour, we've each collected our final boatload of people. We drop them off at the checkpoint, and then begin a final sweep of the flooded area with our scanners set to their highest levels, just to make sure we haven't left anyone behind.

As we chatter back and forth during the search, something about John's voice begins to catch my attention – his responses seem to come ever-so-slightly slower than they ought to, and he seems confused – he keeps asking us which streets he's supposed to be checking.

Scott notices too. "John, you holding up okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," John says. "I'm just really, really tired, but that's normal, right? So I'm fine."

His voice has the tiniest hint of a slur in it, and that, combined with the rather disjointed reply, sets warning bells off in my head.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you been shivering at all?"

"Well, _yeah_ – it's cold out here! But it's mostly stopped now. Why? Are you cold too?"

I let out a sharp sigh – I can't believe I didn't catch this earlier. "John, I want you to meet me back at Thunderbird Two. You probably have hypothermia."

There's a long pause.

"John?" Scott and I speak our brother's name at the same time.  
"I'm still here," John mutters, the slur in his voice more pronounced now. "I'm just trying to remember where we parked…"

There's a snort of laughter over the comm. system, and I realize that Alan must be listening in from Thunderbird Five. "Hey, you," I tell him, "this isn't funny. Make yourself useful and guide John back to Two. And make sure he takes it nice and slow – fast movements aren't good for him right now. I'll go ahead and set up the sickbay."

"FAB," Alan says, and begins giving John directions.

I tune them out and guide the ungainly hover boat back toward Two, pushing it to its top speed – which really isn't very fast. These things are built for their hauling capacity, not for speed or maneuverability.

When I board Two, my first stop is at the kitchenette to get some hot cocoa going. I duck into the sickbay and turn the heat way up, then put some saline in the warmer in case I need to do a heated I.V. I lay a blanket over the cool metal surface of the exam table and then set a few other blankets within easy reach. Finally, I prepare several first-aid warm compresses.

I've been listening with one ear to the radio communication, so I'm ready and waiting outside when John arrives. I wince as he cuts the motor a little late and drifts a bit too far, thumping up against Two's side. He doesn't seem to notice; he stays in his seat, his expression blank and his hands still wrapped around the boat's controls.

I jump over into his boat, and he turns very slowly to look at me. It's good that he's still conscious, but I flinch at the apathy in his eyes.

"C'mon, let's get you inside," I murmur, cautiously helping him stand and trying not to wince at how cool his skin feels. I know that I have to be careful because if he's cold enough, too much movement could trigger a heart attack.

I'm not surprised when Scott suddenly appears at John's other side and helps me move him inside. We stop in the sickbay and gently maneuver John out of his wet uniform, wrapping him up in a blanket.

"Slowly," I say, as we lower him onto the exam table.

Scott grabs the heat packs.

"Just on the neck and the chest wall," I warn him. "If you put them on his arms or legs, it could push cold blood back into his core and make his temperature drop more."

Scott nods and positions the heat packs, then starts piling blankets over John.

I check John's temperature. "Eight-eight Fahrenheit," I say. "Not good, but could be worse."

"Why didn't he tell us?" Scott asks.

"He actually might not have noticed," I say. "Since hypothermia occurs gradually and messes with your awareness, you don't always know your temperature is getting too low."

Within a few minutes, John has warmed up enough to start shivering again, and he is much more aware of what's going on around him.

He looks up at me, teeth chattering, and says, "Hypothermia, huh?"

"Yep," I say. "You were down to eight-eight degrees."

John tries to push himself up, but doesn't quite make it on his own; Scott helps him sit up and wraps the blankets more securely around him.

I duck out to the kitchenette for a minute to fix John a mug of hot cocoa. When I deliver it, I keep my hands nearby until I'm sure he can hang onto it despite his shivers.

John stares gloomily down at the tiny marshmallows floating in the steaming beverage. "How did I get _hypothermia_?" he demands. "It's not even that cold out! And why didn't you two get it?"

I shrug. "Some people are just more susceptible. I'm guessing that the reason you got cold and Scott and I didn't is that we're used to working in all kinds of conditions, whereas you spend most of your time in a highly-controlled environment. It's cool out, and that combined with fatigue and wet clothes was apparently enough to drag you down."

Scott adds, "We actually do have rain gear; Virgil and I just tend to get too hot in it. But we should've reminded you that we have that equipment available…sorry, John."

"Well, I should have known better too," John replies. He wraps his fingers more tightly around the mug; clearly his grip strength is improving. His face is slowly flushing as his body warms back up, making his eyes look even more vivid than normal. "I know we have rain gear, but since you guys weren't wearing any, I figured I could tough it out too."

"Well, next time, if you're cold, then for goodness' sake, put on a raincoat!" I tell him. "Don't just do whatever Scott and I are doing! I mean, I know we're awesome, but…"

"Oh, you are both just unbelievably awesome," John says with a straight face. "Don't worry, I stand corrected. Not only that, but I have seen the error of my ways, and I will not make the same mistake twice."

"Well, good-" Scott starts to say.

John's not done yet. "And by 'the same mistake,'" he says, "I mean attending any rescue that involves water. Next time I'm sending Gordon, sick or not."

And once again, something in John's expression reminds me of an annoyed cat.

I turn away to hide a smirk – I've just gotten a great idea for a painting…


End file.
